Eragon's Army
by The Winter Wizard
Summary: After the Battle of Feinster, an ancient and powerful race known as the Grey Folk surface and swear their loyalty to Eragon Shadeslayer as his army. But Galbatorix has a secret weapon of his own and it's one that nobody ever expected!


**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Inheritance Cycle.

**WARNING:** Lots of action and violence. There's some not-so-nice stuff even in the first chapter so this is not suitable for minors. It's rated "M" for a reason and not just because of possible sex scenes in future chapters. So read it at your own risk.

**Author's Note:** I know that this has probably been done countless times before, but a plot-bunny struck ruthlessly again and I simply _had_ to write it! This is basically another Book IV attempt although I'm not too sure where it'll head off to next and I have to do some research on the previous trilogy since I'm a little rusty on the details. Still, here's the chapter anyways and I hope you enjoy it!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> A Hope Shrouded in Silver

_Bam!_

White spots danced in his vision and pain lanced down Eragon's back as a meaty fist flew into it. His mind reeled and he staggered forward only to get kicked in the groin, sending him flinging backwards.

"Foreign scum!" A voice swore vehemently.

Eragon winced as a crude wooden club crashed into his stomach, making him cough up blood.

_What in Galbatorix's cursed name was happening?_ He wondered.

It had only been one evening since he and Saphira had helped the Varden liberate the City of Feinster, and Eragon had been going for a morning stroll to calm his frazzled nerves.

It was largely due to the fact that he had just witnessed his masters – Oromis and Glaedr – get slaughtered by Murtagh and Thorn who were possessed by the Mad King Galbatorix.

But that wasn't all. After that, Eragon had helped Arya kill another Shade who had just recently formed. Most likely due to sheer exhaustion and grief for the death of the last Rider and Dragon of old, Arya had collapsed into his arms and wept bitterly.

Then they had gone to Nasuada where she informed them of their plans for their campaign against the Empire. The rest of the day had passed in a blur of tears and blood as Eragon and Saphira mourned the death of Oromis and Glaedr, as well as countless others.

What's more, a Queen Islanzadí had just scryed him late that evening to inform him and Nasuada that the Gil'ead was captured although many of the elves died in the struggle.

Add that to half the city being trashed out in the attack and many citizens and Varden warriors wounded, fires needing to be put out, etc, Eragon was exhausted and worn out. He was unable to sleep much for nightmares of Shades and dying soldiers screaming for helped plagued his rest.

He watched in horror as Oromis was beheaded again and again, asking Eragon why he didn't come when he needed them most. Glaedr roared his anger against Eragon for not being there and the elvish queen cursed his name for all the elves that died.

Needless to say, he wasn't the most happy and cheerful person when dawn finally awoke him so he had decided to go for a walk to clear his head. Hardly anyone save guards and a few beggars were awake yet.

Even his elvish guards were sleeping due to all the effort they had put to healing the wounded, and Eragon didn't care to wake them. He didn't want to bother Saphira either who needed her rest more than anyone after their long flight from Du Weldenvarden. So he had been wandering the streets of Feinster aimlessly when he got attacked.

He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he failed to notice the several hulking forms until it was too late. Now they were proceeding to call him all sorts of vile and disgusting names while beating him to a pulp. He didn't think they were Galbatorix's men, for they wore the clothes of civilians.

He could see this faintly although it was tainted with red as he got pummeled by staves and fists. It was their sheer rage that had caught him off-guard, really, but Eragon almost welcomed the assault. He had been feeling wretched at all who had died for him and now that his masters were gone and Arya almost got killed, he wanted nothing more to die.

_Eragon!_ A feminine voice roared in his mind. _Eragon!_

But the words were lost to him, for the cursing and swearing grew louder as a crowd gathered about him. When the rotten fruits and vegetables were thrown at him he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was the people of Feinster. Their angry cries confirmed this.

"Damn you Dragon Riders!" They raged.

"May you rebels pay for attacking or blessed city!"

"You abducted our leader and for that you shall be stoned to death!"

"Stone him!" A voice yelled fiendishly in agreement, and the crowd picked up the cry getting whipped up into a frenzy.

"Stone him!"

"Stone him!"

"Stone him!"

The first stone struck Eragon in the nose and he howled in pain, but he did not care. He was too lost in his pain and grief that everything passed in a blur. The stones hit him fast and hard as the angry people of Feinster, enraged at the Varden attacking them and capturing their Lady – threw a thousand stones at him.

The stones burned as they struck his skin, ripping parts of it to shreds and leaving burn marks as they glanced off rapidly from his skin. If it weren't for the Dragon Magic that enhanced Eragon's body and senses, he would have been long dead by now. Even so, he felt extremely week on and on the verge of giving up. He was screaming in pain so loud that his voice was hoarse and his throat felt like it was on fire.

His entire life, even his own name and Saphira, were forgotten. Oddly enough, the face of a woman – or he thought it was one, he couldn't be sure – swam in his mind. She had soft, white skin and bright emerald eyes. A warm smile illuminated her face and raven-black hair cascaded softly down her forehead.

"_Stay with me, Eragon,"_ She murmured. _"Never give in. Help is just around the corner."_

But then his vision stretched and blurred and the woman vanished from his mind's eye. In that same second, Eragon fell to the ground winding him. He gasped for breath and vomited bile as a foot that felt like iron stomped down relentlessly on his back.

"_Death!"_

"_Death!"_

"_Death!"_

The people of Feinster cried, sounding like shrieking demons from another world. Wanting to find out who the woman in his vision was, Eragon closed his eyes and struggled to block out all the pain and agony that coursed through his being like scalding hot acid. But it was no good and the foot pounding on his back felt like white hot knives stabbing into him mercilessly.

He was just about to give up the ghost and die when a blast of music flooded through him. Like a glorious tranquilizer, the sound of a bagpipe emanated from somewhere above the relentless crowd and Eragon latched onto it like a leech. He pictured it like a lifeline tossed to him in a raging sea, or like the mysterious woman who wanted him to survive. She was probably the only one who did.

Gloriously and almost effortlessly, the bagpipes continued to play their ethereal tune. Only this time, the intense rhythm of drums accompanied them making his heart leap with joy. Tears of gratitude rolled down his bloodied cheeks as the music pierced his darkened soul sending a flicker of hope to his almost lifeless being.

It sounded like the requiem fit for a god, or the music of angels and made the pain lessen ever so slightly. Everything else faded, and only the beautiful music reached Eragon's ears. But his bubble of peace was shattered by a harsh cry and the music stopped.

Only the drumbeats continued but now they took on a tune cold and dreadful like an angry beast wanting revenge. The yelling crowds died down reluctantly; their shouts diverted to someone – or something – else. Hope welled up within Eragon and he opened his eyes slowly, not daring to see what might not be there. But that woman was right, help _had_ come for him.

But then a shadow of doubt crossed his mind – the help was not in the form of the Varden or the elves or even Saphira for that matter. It took on the image of an army. A vast number of people, all strong and muscular although some were surprisingly women, were using all their weight in numbers to break up the mob.

They were all dressed in odd-looking dark silver cloaks with hoods drawn well over their faces. The cloaks were almost grey and hid ever other part of their body, making him unable to locate their coat of arms. They wore strange weapons too – some kind of thin sword with a wickedly curved blade and a glittering silver handle.

The mysterious newcomers were using tall spears to push back the crowd, but not the spear-tips. At first it looked like they were losing when a fierce sound of a horn blew in the air, startling the throng. A blood-curdling roar made Eragon's heart do a little happy dance.

_Saphira had come for him!_

And indeed she had for he felt the familiar Bond strengthen as a flood of healing power flowed through him. A wave of relief washed over him as the crowd finally broke up at the sight of the enraged she-dragon, who had to torch several civilians and disgruntled city guards in order to get the mob to finally leave. And leave they did, running haphazardly here and there screaming on the top of their lungs.

It was utter chaos and yet Eragon found himself laughing maniacally all the same. His laughter subsided to sputtering coughs and he rolled over with a groan, staring up into the cloudless morning sky. His breathing went rigged and the last thing he saw before passing out was that face of the raven-haired woman hover above him.

He smiled weakly at her and she gave him a tearful smile in return, kneeling beside him and chanting some words in a strange language. But Eragon didn't care for he knew he had honored the memory and had survived. He had made it by the skin of his teeth, but he would live. Eragon smiled, oddly content, as he sank down into a welcome and dreamless sleep.

He was, for once, at peace.

**To Be Continued...**

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><p><strong>AN:** Okay, I realize I might have made this a little melodramatic but the story just _flowed_ whether I liked it or not. I hadn't meant to start it like this, but that plot-bunny had shackled me and wouldn't let me go until I began this fanfic like so. Well, what's done is done and as you might guess the newcomers in dark silver cloaks are, in fact, the Grey Folk.

Also, I know full well that bagpipes and drums probably weren't invented back then. However, no one knows anything about the Grey Folk so I'm allowed to tweak the story as I see fit. Well, I hope that wasn't too awful for you but I always wondered what it would be like if the city that Eragon and gang 'liberated' wasn't too pleased with his attack. But that's all I can reveal for now, although more will come as always in future chapters...

...So stay tuned!


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